


Emma, the Weasel and the Great Fairytale Free-for-All

by lanoyee



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Girls, F/F, Mention of Child Abuse, trope-o-rama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanoyee/pseuds/lanoyee
Summary: Emma's life may not be typical, but neither is it terribly exciting. After all these years, the foster homes are starting to blur into each other and she spends most of her time trying to stay under the radar, hoping she can stay in one place for more than a year. Until one day animals can talk and nothing is ever quite the same.A.k.a., the Magical Girl AU you never knew you wanted.





	1. Chapter One - In Which There Is A Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be finished in time for SQ supernova, but my executive dysfunction had other ideas. So now I'm trying the post-as-I-go-thing.
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, there is some description of child abuse.
> 
> Based on the fact that Emma was born in 1983, this story takes place in the year 2000.

The morning is deceptively gentle on this Monday in late February; no sound louder than the far-away peeping of birds and nothing brighter than the few rays of sunlight coming in through the blinds disturb Emma Swan's slumber. That is, until urgent knocking sounds at the door to her room and draws her into consciousness. 

“Emma? It's almost 7:30, you're going to be late for school.” That's the voice of her foster mother drifting to her ears. 

The knocking stops, and all is silent for a moment before Emma's sleepy brain catches up with her foster mother's words and she shoots up from the mattress, blinking rapidly to chase off the fogginess of sleep. Her hand fumbles for the switch of the lamp on the nightstand. 

“I'm up, I'm up!” She yells from behind her fingers and sticks out a foot from the bed. 

The next second, she's out of bed and hobbling over to the chair where she piles used clothes. She grabs her still-good jeans and sweater from yesterday and then moves over to her wardrobe to get clean socks and underwear. Her shower takes five minutes at most, achieved by her skipping hair care altogether and nabbing some of her foster sister's dry shampoo instead; with a mental note to buy some for herself from her allowance. Which she has now, god or whatever deity bless nice All-American middle class families who can actually afford to have a foster child.

When she's made herself presentable, she bounds down the stairs and is about to head out the door, when her foster mother's voice calls her from the kitchen. At the kitchen entrance, Emma comes face to face with a brown paper bag being offered to her. “Don't forget lunch,” says her foster mother and smiles with only a little hesitation.

There's a beat and Emma mutters “thanks” as she takes the bag out of her foster mother's hands. She quickly averts her eyes and gets out the door.

Her foster mother means well, and Emma appreciates that, but she's been with a few families that meant well and sent her back to the group home anyway. In a way, it's more unnerving than the ones that simply and blatantly don't care, except about a little extra in benefits or perhaps their own egos.

But she doesn't like to think about that, so she shakes her head and focuses on the pavement before her.

 

It's still cold enough that her breath mists before her in the morning twilight and Emma now feels distinctly that her hands are freezing – damn, she forgot her gloves. 

And because this morning didn't start badly enough, there's a sudden _squelch_ under the soles of her tattered converse, and Emma looks down to find out she's stepped into some kind of rotten fruit. It's foul all through, almost black. Emma pulls a face and takes her foot off of the fruit, which has a stem loosely attached to one side, so it must have been an apple or a pear. She clumsily wipes her foot on the edge of the curb, then rummages for a tissue in her bag, which helps her clean off the worst of the worst.

She shoves her arms deep into the pockets of her coat and marches on toward the bus stop.

 

Emma has long since missed first period, of course, but she's just in time for math. She's about to make a dash for the lockers to get her books when someone gets in her way. “Emma, there you are!” the girl says, her brow knit in concern. 

The girl is Mary Margaret Blanchard, the first friend Emma made at this school, and possibly the most unlikely friend at that. She's a prim and proper only child from a wealthy family, someone Emma wouldn't have approached of her own initiative, yet Mary Margaret had insisted on befriending her. This, Emma suspects, is largely because Mary Margaret is friends with _everyone_ , a decision often made quite unilaterally on her side, but Emma doesn't mind this. She's glad to have a friend, any friend at all, and Mary Margaret's genuinely a friendly sort, if a bit oblivious about some things.

Flanking her are her friends, Ruby and Belle. Together, they're the kind of trio that could be the Queen Bee and her acolytes if it they were literally any other kinds of girls, but as it is, they're more like the nerd squad that is mysteriously popular. Belle's as much a bookworm as anyone could be – she even volunteers at the school library. Ruby, meanwhile, is a bit of a misfit, coming from a family that runs a tiny diner that's cleaner than most in the center of town and regularly sporting outfits that get her marked as class skank. 

They're the weirdest group of friends Emma has seen yet and they will absolutely kill you with kindness, so Emma plays along and is happier than she's been in a while. Not that she'd ever admit it. 

Emma puts her hand on her heart. “Geez, give a girl a heart attack, why don't you.” She shifts her weight on her feet and looks away. “Yeah, so I may have decided to sleep in a bit.”

There goes Mary Margaret, shaking her head at Emma like she's her mom. Mary Margaret would be everybody's mom if she could. It's annoying and humbling at the same time. “What did you do? Play with your Game Boy until the morning hours again?”

“You got me there.” Emma gives Mary Margaret a sheepish grin as the three of them fall into a walk toward the lockers. The Game Boy had been the “welcome at our house” gift from her foster parents and she hasn't tired of it yet. Not a new one, of course, a hand-me-down from her foster brother. 

Mary Margaret shakes her head again, but with a fond smile. “Maybe you should give yourself a time limit.”

“Hey! This is the first time I missed a class this year!” Emma puffs out her chest. Because no, not all school years have been like this. Sometimes she had no clean clothes and was ashamed to show up (because in a group home, it's easy to miss the exact moment the foster mother decides to do laundry), sometimes she just stayed up long because she really didn't want to face the morning (chalk it up to teen angst), and sometimes she showed up but was too hungry to concentrate (there was that one family that thought food denial was an adequate method of discipline). And after countless lectures from teachers and carers alike, this year Emma feels like she can finally manage to get her act together.

She is rewarded in math class, where the teacher returns the exam they wrote last week. Emma almost shouts when she sees the circled B- at the top of her sheet, which is the best math grade she's had in years. Her spirits are instantly lifted, and she spends the rest of the morning in a good mood.

 

Her mood is soured at lunch. She trails after her friends into the school cafeteria, lost in miscellaneous thoughts about what excuse she'll give her English teacher tomorrow and which drug store is most convenient to go to.

Okay, so maybe she's not exactly thinking where she's going, but it's a cafeteria, they stand in line, no big deal, right? 

Except that is apparently not enough to keep her from running straight up into another girl after taking a bit longer to choose a meal (because the cafeteria's pasta get dry but the lasagna tastes like so much rubber, so the sad imitation of a vegetable stir-fry has to do, even though she hates broccoli); her friends having already left her behind, Emma suddenly finds herself on her own in having to deal with a girl staring at her with an open mouth and an otherwise impeccably white blouse that probably didn't come with food down its front as a design choice.

“Can't you watch where you're going?” yells the girl with all the wrath of a cranky suburban lady who has just been denied a refund.

Emma blurts out a “sorry” and seriously wonders for a hot second if she's going to be reported to the principal for this. She shakes her head to dispel the thought, which turns out to be a mistake.

Because now she's got Blouse Girl all up in her face, or at least close enough that Emma notices how long her lashes are, fanning out with a perfect application of mascara over dark brown eyes; and how the shadows dip on a spot on her upper lip next to her left nostril, revealing a fairly prominent scar. “You don't _look_ sorry,” the girl retorts, and her voice seems unnaturally loud in Emma's ears.

Emma backs up a little, drawing her mouth into a frown. “No really, I am, and yeah, I wasn't looking where I was going, but to be fair you did cut in line before me.” She straightens as she says this and drags her eyes up to meet Blouse Girl's gaze in a challenge.

Emma Swan has not come as far as she has in life by cowering to the first asshole who gets in her way.

And this girl? Is an asshole. From the prissy, entitled attitude over her booming voice right down to what Emma guesses must be designer clothing, she looks exactly like the classic mean girl this school has been missing.

True to form, Blouse Girl's face contorts in barely contained rage. “You'll regret this,” she promises, as if she were some kind of comic book villain, then turns and stalks off, leaving bits of vegetables and sauce behind on the floor.

Emma can only blink and stare after her. What do you even say to that? Emma shakes her head and looks down at the mess. She should probably clean that up, but her feet refuse to move.

That's when she notices a figure out of the corner of her eye.

“Hey, what's taking you?” Ruby asks and only then takes in the scene. “Gee, what happened?”

For lack of any other idea, Emma shrugs. “Bumped into a girl, accidentally made her spill her food. She flipped her shit.”

“Huh. Any idea who she was?”

“Nope, never seen her.” Another shrug. “Maybe she's from another grade.”

 

Blouse Girl is not from another grade. Which Emma finds out by being on time for first period the next morning, only to find the previously empty seat right next to hers taken by none other than the _incredibly_ smug-faced girl from the cafeteria.

“Seriously? You're a transfer student?” Over the girl's shoulder, Emma can see Ruby making faces at her from the back. She ignores her.

Blouse Girl, who isn't actually wearing a blouse today, has the nerve to give Emma a full once-over while she leans forward and puts her chin on her steepled hands. “That's right.”

Emma looks at the girl, then at her own chair to her right, then back at the girl. She takes a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “Okay. Here's the deal. I don't bother you, you don't bother me. That fine by you?”

“It would be,” her new classmate now leans back to languish on her seat, and under her desk, one leg elegantly crosses the other, “if I could count on you to stay focused enough to not, I don't know.” There's a hand wave. “Spill your water over my notes.”

Calm, Emma. Stay calm. “No, I'd have to do that on purpose. Which I just might do one day, depending on how obnoxious you plan on being.”

Eyebrow raise. “I guess we'll see.”

“I guess so.” Emma exhales in a burst, then flings herself into her seat with extra gusto, just to assert her presence and right to be there. _I was here first, and if you don't like it, you'll have to be the one to move._

Their teacher enters the room as Emma puts her last things on the desk. Upon being called, Emma fibs something about a headache. Then her new neighbor is called and at least Blouse Girl now has a name: Regina Mills. There's the barest glance at Emma as Regina introduces herself, and her smirk is still way too smug to be healthy for Emma's blood pressure.

Might be because Emma scoffed when she heard her say her name. Emma never took Latin, but she knows just enough that she's aware “Regina” means “queen”. If nothing else, it certainly fits.

At the end of that February Wednesday, Emma's certain her life is about to be pretty much over. The completely unlikely event that Regina shares _all_ of her classes except geography has actually become reality, and while she can't be 100% sure Regina was intentionally giving off mean girl vibes toward her the entire time they breathed the same air that day, she's pretty damn sure.

Just like that, her world has tilted on its axis and gone from “looking fairly good” to _actual hell_. 

 

She's sure her hatred of Regina is complete when she sees her get into a fucking _vintage Benz_ while crossing the schoolyard toward the gates. Ruby next to her whistles and Emma shoots her a weak glare.

“What? Can't a girl admire a nice ride?”

The car _is_ nice, but it's not a point Emma wants to concede. “She doesn't even drive it. She got into the passenger seat.”

“Even better!”

Emma doesn't reply. Instead she focuses on the rhythmic scuffling of their shoes on the pavement and their long shadows ahead of them. After a minute, Ruby speaks again.

“Why are you so determined to hate this girl, anyway? She's only been here two days. And I mean, yeah, so she's rich, but so's Mary Margaret.”

Damn Ruby for being so perceptive. “She just gives me really bad vibes,” and she prepares to go on the defense – her ability to read people has gotten her out of many tough spots before.

But another moment passes while Emma imagines she can feel Ruby's eyes boring into the back of her head. “Huh,” is all Ruby says until they reach the bus station.


	2. Chapter Two - In Which Our Hero Meets Her Destiny

Ruby manages to catch a bus before Emma does, and for a goodbye she gives Emma a quick hug, which has Emma so surprised and flustered that she doesn't get a chance to respond in kind. For all that they're both friends of actual care bear Mary Margaret Blanchard, they don't generally do physical affection.

Left behind waiting for her bus, Emma ruminates on her high school experience. On TV, it always seems like your high school friendships are the most important thing in the world, but Emma doesn't feel that way. For her, it seems like all the relationships she's made are founded on an unspoken knowledge that they are not meant to last. Emma doesn't know if that's because she's a foster child with a history of moving homes and schools a lot, or if that's just how it is for everyone, no matter how tight-knit some cliques may act.

She hates it.

There's a part of her that wants hugs and sleepovers and friendship diaries, but since they're never offered, she can't do anything else but act cynical. It's how she keeps from wanting to chuck herself off a building.

Suddenly, something moves at the very upper edge of her vision. Emma looks up and sees a small, kinda oblong animal. A small browse of her memory makes her guess that it's a weasel.

“Hello, little guy,” she greets the weasel, which sits on its hind legs and tilts its head at her. She can't help but laugh at that. “Didn't know weasels were so tiny.”

The weasel continues trotting directly toward her, with what seems to Emma like a weird sense of purpose, and has just put its front legs up on the curb when she realizes that the whirring sound she's heard is her bus arriving. In a flurry of emotion totally uncharacteristic with her, she is seized by worry for the small animal and dives to scoop him up, which means that the bus stops mere centimeters to her left and honks loudly at her.

Emma turns her head and catches the irritated bus driver's glare through the vehicle's windshield. Heat shoots up into her ears and she quickly hops back on the sidewalk, where she puts the small critter in her hands down. She doesn't bother to look after it and instead goes toward the bus door, enduring the bus driver's small lecture and then muttering awkward apologies before sitting down on the next best empty seat. Her face feels like it's on fire for probably at least half the ride, wondering if a woodland critter's life was worth the humiliation. On the other hand, she figures this was probably her only shot to do something kinda heroic in life, so why not.

Still, she's happy when she's home and in her room.

After a day like this, she decides she deserves some downtime with her Game Boy before she battles homework, so she settles down on her bed to do just that. An unreasonable amount of excitement rises in her at the little _beep_ the Game Boy makes as it's booting. Perhaps not entirely appropriate for a young woman of seventeen, but she's wanted one of these things since they were actually cool. 

She's about halfway through her fifth level of Super Mario Land when there's a knocking sound at her... window? 

Emma's heartbeat quickens; her room is on the second floor, so someone knocking would be unusual to say the least. _Probably just a bird_ , she thinks and shakes her head to dispel the absurdly rising nervousness.

But there's another knock, and suddenly Emma is determined not to let whatever this is frighten her, so she puts her Game Boy down on the bed and swings her legs off the side to walk the few steps over toward the room's single window. 

Nothing seems out of the ordinary at first glance, so she pushes the window open. The tree standing on that side of the house has been stretching its branches pretty close toward her window, so – “holy mother of god,” Emma, who does not consider herself religious, exclaims, as she sees a _weasel_ obviously struggling to hold onto the branch and then waste no time to hop onto her windowsill.

“No! Get out! Bad critter, bad!” Emma uses both hands to make vague shooing motions toward the animal. 

“And here I thought you liked me,” the weasel says.

Silence. 

Then, _”I swear I didn't take any drugs!”_

Emma's voice sounds shrill in her own ears. She hopes she didn't just alert any of her foster family, because this is _really_ not something she wants to be caught in. The weasel sits on its hind legs, tilts its head. Which is enough to make Emma stumble backwards until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she plops down.

The damn thing speaks again. “You don't have to be scared.”

At the risk of being cliché, Emma pinches herself in the back of her hand. It hurts.

She blinks, shakes her head. Which only gets the weasel to ask, “What are you doing?”

“I'm not dreaming?” Emma can only squeak.

“Of course you're not!” says the weasel, as if there's nothing unusual about a talking animal that isn't a parrot. 

She turns her head and looks at the animal sideways, because somehow not looking at it directly makes the whole unreality of the situation just a tiny bit easier to bear. “Why are you talking to me?”

The little thing straightens up, as if it's been waiting for this moment. Emma almost thinks she can see a serious expression on its face. “I'm here because you're needed! The world is in grave danger, and only you can stop it!”

“Say _what?_ ”

“You need to save the world.”

Emma sighs and relaxes for the first time in five minutes. “Look, I'm not Buffy, and you _definitely_ aren't Giles.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” 

Now the weasel moves closer to her, and Emma tries very hard not to recoil when it puts its tiny front paws on her leg. “I know you don't believe me, but you're more powerful than you think.”

She scoffs. “I'm not powerful. I'm just about tough enough to chase a bully away.”

“So you've never noticed anything strange happening around you?”

Something stirs in the back of her brain, and memories want to surface. Memories of falling but not getting hurt, of trying to move things with her mind after a _Star Wars_ marathon and actually succeeding, of lights flickering above during a tantrum.

She'd been pretty sure all of those were her doing that thing where she confused dreams with actual memories.

“No way,” is what she ends up saying.

But the talking weasel in front of her insists. “Oh yes! I know you just remembered! Those were your powers coming through. Because that's how powerful they are. Usually, Legendaries can only access their power after transformation, but you? You can use them even when they are dormant.”

“Legendaries? What the heck?”

“Language!” And now she's being tut-tutted by a tiny animal. Truly, Emma Swan is living the dream.

“That wasn't even a swear. And I wouldn't need to, anyway, if you'd explain to me what on earth you're talking about.”

“Hmmm,” the weasel sits back on its hind legs, as if pondering. “In the simplest words, there exist certain supernatural forces in the world. Some of those do not have the world's best interest in mind. Legendaries are warriors chosen to fight these dark forces. They keep the world in its hinges, so to speak.”

“That's it?” Emma rolls her eyes. “That's all I get. You couldn't get any more vague with that?”

“I thought I'd put it in a language you'd understand.”

Emma gasps. “Hey, hold it with the sass! I can understand complex things just fine, thanks. Been living 'complex' all my life. So what does all that have to do with me, exactly?”

“Well, you're a Legendary, of course! You're the Savior, and I'm so happy I found you first!” The weasel bounces on her comforter, its oblong body undulating with the motion.

Needless to say, though, Emma remains skeptical. “Savior, huh? Thought I'd get a cooler name, at least. Something less Christian-sounding. Hey, speaking of names. Do _you_ have one, or do I gotta think of you as 'that annoying critter' the whole time?”

“Excuse me! I'm totally cute!” The weasel preens. “My name is Henry.”

“A magical talking weasel named Henry. Okay, why not.” At this point, she figures she'll just shrug her way through this, and then lie down in bed and wake up tomorrow morning realizing all this was just a really weird dream.

They stare each other down for a moment. Then, Henry clears his throat. “Anyway, I've got something for you.”

Emma's eyes widen as Henry makes a little motion and pulls an object out of some kind of wormhole in the air. It lands before her on the bed and she leans down to inspect it. What she sees is what looks like the princess version of a toy sheriff's badge, all pink and bejeweled – but the jewels and gold parts look real, not like cheap plastic coated in metallic paint. She looks up at Henry, he looks back. She can see the tiny strands of his whiskers vibrate slightly. The badge draws her eyes again; she gingerly picks it up, turns it around in her hand. “What is this?”

“Your Legendary Badge! It will help you transform into your Legendary self. Just say the world 'make me a legend' while holding it.”

She makes a face at this. “That's just cheesy.”

“I don't make the rules. And anyway, you don't have to say it loud if you're embarrassed.”

“Reassuring.”

Too late, she hears the floorboards creak outside her room, then her foster sister's voice floats in through the door. “Hey loser, it's dinner time!”

The moniker annoys Emma, but she knows Katherine is just trying to be cool and buddy-buddy, so she's been letting it slide so far. “I'm coming!” She yells back, then turns to Henry. “You heard her. I need to show for dinner.”

Henry scrunches up his nose. “Okay. I'll come back tomorrow. If you need me, tell a bird.”

“What?”

“Tell a bird. They're messengers.”

“Right. Of course. 'Cause the pink wasn't Disney princess enough.”

“Are you mad about this?”

Emma shrugs. “I mean, it's way cheaper than a cell phone, so why not.”

Henry laughs at this. “I know, right! The metaphysical world has its advantages, you'll see.”

For the first time, Emma gives Henry a smile, if a wry one. “Oh, that I don't doubt. Now, go! I gotta get downstairs.”

Henry trots toward the edge of the bed, at which point Emma takes mercy on him and carries him over to the window, where he hops onto the tree branch. He turns around and waves his tail at her, and then he's gone almost faster than she can see.

By the time she reaches the door, she's entirely forgotten that she was determined to think this was a dream. 

 

Which is what she ends up thinking anyway when she wakes up the next morning. Even once she's rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, everything about the previous evening seems a little hazy in her mind. She prepares for the day in rote motions, which is all she's usually capable of at this time of day. 

It's only when she comes back into her room from the bathroom that her gaze falls on her nightstand, and there lies the pink, glistening badge.

“Holy shit,” Emma whispers.

The next few minutes, she just spends standing in the middle of her room, almost afraid to move, as if the badge would somehow come to life and start talking too. How can she know that it won't? She must finally be going crazy, because she's giving an inanimate object the evil eye and tiptoeing very slowly toward it.

It doesn't budge. Just lies there, peacefully, right next to her alarm clock.

She picks it up again, weighs it in her hand. It's very light, almost weightless, while feeling solid and sturdy to the touch. She taps against its side with her index finger: again, solid. Not flimsy plastic. 

Suddenly spooked, she shoves the badge into the drawer in her nightstand and slams it shut. 

She gets dressed, picks up her bag, and leaves.

 

But the small incident woke a feeling of unease and foreboding in Emma that refuses to go away. She enters her school building distracted and spends what must be several minutes staring into her open locker. When she finally looks away, her gaze lands on a girl standing halfway down the hall from Emma with her back turned to her. Her lithe figure is clad in a bright red dress that hugs her body shape but is still modest enough to be suitable for school; thick dark hair falls in loose curls over her shoulders. Emma watches as she pushes her hair back with a delicate hand. The hand stills, as if the girl noticed something, and she starts turning toward Emma –

It's Regina.

It takes Emma just a fraction of a second too long to avert her eyes, so she can still see Regina's brow furrow deeply. Her cheeks warm, and she slams her locker shut and stomps off in the direction of her classroom to cover up the incident. 

“Emma!” She freezes, deathly afraid for a moment that it's Regina calling her out on staring, but then she registers that it's Mary Margaret's voice.

“Oh, hey!” Emma replies, turning to a lone Mary Margaret coming her way. Right now, she feels so grateful she could kiss Mary Margaret. “All by yourself? Where are Belle and Ruby?”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes at Emma. “We're not all glued together, you know. I didn't see them yet, maybe they're already in the classroom.”

“Kay, well, what are we waiting for?” They fall into step with each other.

She must have been too hasty, or let some other tell slip through, because now Mary Margaret is doing that 'I know way too much for this goodie-two-shoes exterior' head tilt of hers. “Is everything all right?”

Emma grins and hopes it's convincing enough. “Yeah, sure, everything's fine.”

“Okay,” says Mary Margaret, and Emma's not sure she bought it, but she's not about to test it. 

Right in front of the classroom door, Emma stops. “Hey, uh,” she thinks hard, picks her own brain for something to say, “can I look at your math homework real quick later? I'm so not sure I got it right.”

Not really, well, actually really, but mostly Emma's focused on how she has to get in that room and sit next to Regina for the next forty minutes. She wants to taste freedom for as long as she can get it.

“Of course,” Mary Margaret says, and now she's definitely looking at Emma like she's got ketchup on her cheek. 

There's the sound of someone clearing her throat coming from Emma's left-hand side, and then Regina comes into view. “Excuse me, do you _need_ to block the classroom door for your inane chatter?” 

Both their heads turn toward her as she approaches, but then Regina stops in her tracks. She eyes Mary Margaret from feet to hairline and makes no effort to hide a sneer of derision. “Ah. Of course you'd seek the company of someone like _her_.” Emma blinks, then realizes it's her she's talking to when Regina turns to face her. “I'd watch out if I were you, Miss Swan. Looks can be deceiving.”

And then she's pushing through between them without another word. Emma doesn't have time to jump back, so Regina's arm brushes her chest, and now her cheeks are _definitely_ on fire.

“Wow, talk about rude,” she mutters and gives Mary Margaret a sheepish look, whose forehead is etched in a scowl. 

“Yes, that was quite impolite. I wonder where she gets the idea. And the nerve.” But then Mary Margaret smiles again, a little too brightly. “Let's not let her bother us! Right?”

“Right.” Emma takes a deep breath and faces the classroom door. “Well, time to enter the lion's den,” and with that, she strides into the room.

 

This must be hell, Emma thinks. Sitting next to Regina might have been easy if they could just ignore each other, but Emma just _knows_ Regina is giving her evil glares every so often. Probably because that's what she's doing. Only hers aren't _evil_ , just laden with a healthy suspicion. Yes. That is precisely what it is.

Point is, they're watching each other like hawks, but Emma would rather die than admit it, and apparently Regina can't be deigned to communicate with her directly either; so it's just an incessant battle of PA.

Until about twenty minutes in, when the teacher decides it is time for pair work. “Please pair up with your neighbor for this exercise,” she says, and Emma sucks in a breath, because as it happens, she has a window seat. 

She looks over to Regina. Regina looks over to her. Their eyes meet, and the tension seems unbearable for a second. Then Regina quirks her eyebrow and goes, “Well?”

Emma narrows her eyes, then sighs. “Fine. Get over here.”

Of course, Regina's not one to be ordered around. “No. You come over _here_.”

Emma rolls her eyes. She gets up from her seat, pushing it back with her knees a little too forcefully, picking up her desk and setting it back down next to Regina's a little too loudly. Regina's face says 'really?', but she picks up her book.

“Okay, let's just... let's just do this,” Emma says, and starts copying the three questions they are supposed to answer together into her notepad. 

Their teacher has been making the rounds between the rows of chairs and now comes to a halt in front of them. “Oh, Miss Swan, are you helping Miss Mills get acquainted with the material? That's really great.”

“That's hardly necessary, in fact I'm sure our exchange will be... mutually beneficial,” Regina wastes no time replying. Emma wants to gag.

“Oh, well, that's even better!” Their teacher chirps and moves on to Ruby and Belle behind them. Who Emma kind of irrationally hates right now for leaving the seat next to her empty. They just wanted to sit next to each other that badly. 

“Well then, _Miss Mills_ ” she spits at Regina, glare out in full force, “teach me.” 

They're about the same height, but Regina still somehow manages to look down on her. “With pleasure.”

So they squabble, and they try to one-up each other, but in what must be a small miracle, they get the work done; and then Emma only has to wait until the class is over and she can bolt out the door as quickly as possible.


End file.
